


Candy

by winwinism



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Universe, Cuddle Pollen, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: The team’s having dinner at the hotel when Atsumu notices: something’s up with Kiyoomi.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 278





	Candy

The team’s having dinner at the hotel when Atsumu notices: something’s up with Kiyoomi. He always looks out for his spikers, and he keeps an extra close eye on Kiyoomi, whose condition can vary wildly with only the slightest tells. Atsumu’s also a little bit in love with him, but that’s not important. Point is, he realizes there’s an odd flush to Kiyoomi’s cheeks and an odder still tremble to his hands as he eats before anyone else would’ve, least of all their captain, who’s too many shots of sake into the evening to play the part. 

He ducks his head to whisper, careful to give Kiyoomi a wide enough berth that the proximity won’t make him uncomfortable. “Omi-kun, you feeling alright?” 

Kiyoomi’s throat bobs on another swallow. Eyes fixed ahead of him, he places his (pale, long-fingered) hands in his lap. The shake of his head is so slight that a casual observer wouldn’t have noticed. “I think,” he murmurs, “I ate something strange.”

It’s true that Kiyoomi can be paranoid, but Atsumu suspects that this time, for once, Kiyoomi might be right. His face is shiny, like he’s starting to sweat. “What d’you think it was?”

“Earlier. I had one of the candies Shouyou had bought.” 

“Really?”

“I mistook them for cough drops.”

“Ah. That explains it.” 

“I don’t feel good,” Kiyoomi confesses, urgency bleeding into the low shake of his voice. “I think--” He starts to get up. “--I should return to my room.” 

Though he’s not finished with dinner, Atsumu stands, too. Kiyoomi wavers once he’s on his feet; and before he can overthink it, Atsumu takes hold of his shoulder, steadying him. Normally, Kiyoomi would shrug him off with a glare, or Atsumu would realize his error before Kiyoomi could and withdraw. Now, Kiyoomi _relaxes_ into the touch with a visible shiver of--something? Relief? Startled, Atsumu releases him, giving Kiyoomi a quick once-over. Something _is_ wrong with him. Atsumu turns to their captain to announce their premature departure, and says to Kiyoomi, “Let’s go.” 

Kiyoomi huffs with impatience as they head up to the team’s quarters. Atsumu steals glances at him, running through the possibilities in his mind: food-borne illness? A cold? Something worse? He finds it unlikely Kiyoomi would’ve fallen ill from eating a single candy, of all things, but maybe--

“Why do you think it was the candy?”

Kiyoomi makes a low noise of frustration, like it should be obvious. “I started feeling... _strange_ as soon as I’d eaten it.”

“Strange how?”

“Like...warm. And itchy.” 

As Atsumu processes this, brow furrowing, a horrifying thought strikes him. What if the candies were _laced_ with something? He never would’ve thought Shouyou the type to buy that sort of thing, but maybe it was an accident, if they were poorly labelled enough for Kiyoomi to mistake them for medicine. “Shit, Omi, d’you think you were _drugged?_ ”

“How would I know?” 

“Good question. C’mere, let me look at you for a second.” Kiyoomi obediently turns around, the flush in his cheeks deeper than it’d been mere minutes ago, and Atsumu swears his eyes glitter. His _eyes_. They’re dark, like polished obsidian, enough that Atsumu can scarcely make out the shape of his pupils, but a step closer makes that clear enough: they’re dilated, swallowing up each iris. “Your pupils are _huge_. I do not have a good feeling about this. Should I--d’you wanna go to the hospital? I’ll take you.”

Kiyoomi frowns at the prospect. “I’ll just. Lie down for a while.” He starts towards his assigned room, Atsumu following, more baffled than ever. Kiyoomi, he knows, has happily taken more than his fair share of trips to the hospital, so why reject that option now? 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m _sure_ , Miya,” Kiyoomi bites out. 

Atsumu takes the _Miya_ for the blow that it is and lets Kiyoomi go ahead. He still follows him in, though, because hell if he’ll let Kiyoomi’s first sign of possessing a self-destructive impulse go unchallenged. “You’re acting weird.”

“Well, I feel weird.” 

“I’m calling the team physician.”

“ _Don’t_.” Kiyoomi paces the room, growing visibly more agitated as Atsumu watches from the threshold. At a loss of what else to do, Atsumu’s running simulations of all the first aid modules he’s taken over the years in his head when Kiyoomi starts stripping. 

“Woah, what the--”

“I’m lying down,” Kiyoomi announces, shrugging off his shirt and getting to work on his pants. His boxers are white and clingy, and his legs are nearly hairless. Atsumu observes all of this with complete disinterest. “I’m taking a nap.” 

“Okay,” says Atsumu, preserving Kiyoomi’s modesty by averting his eyes, for all that they see each other naked every goddamn day in the locker room. “I’ll go, uh, get you some water.” 

He returns a minute later with a refrigerated water bottle, and a Pocari Sweat for good measure. Kiyoomi’s lying atop his unmade bed, naked save for his underpants (Atsumu appreciates the thought), limbs splayed out like the Vitruvian man. Though his eyes are closed, he’s borderline panting. 

Atsumu approaches and gingerly kneels at his bedside.“Omi. Drink this.”

Kiyoomi peels one eye open. “Why?” 

“Because you’re sweating, and probably sick, somehow. You’re a pro athlete, you should know this.”

Kiyoomi’s lips pinch into a frown, but he accepts the bottle, shakily screwing it open and dribbling water all over his neck and chest as he drinks. He tosses it aside and smacks his lips, then looks pointedly at Atsumu, like he’s offended him. Atsumu doesn’t take it personally. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Hot.”

 _You’re always hot_ , Atsumu doesn’t say. He knows Kiyoomi has a first-aid kit on hand, so he asks for it and fetches it from the location Kiyoomi describes, plucking the thermometer from its contents and handing it Kiyoomi for self-administration. His temperature is--“Normal,” Atsumu confirms. “No fever. So, uh.” He’s running out of ways to help. He and Osamu hardly ever got sick as kids; when they did, it was never something a spoonful of medicine or a bowl of hot broth couldn’t fix. “I should really call the physician, just to make sure.”

At once, Kiyoomi’s hand darts out, latching onto Atsumu’s forearm with a vise-like grip before he can withdraw from Kiyoomi’s bedside. Atsumu blinks down at him, stunned, as Kiyoomi stares back with parted lips. He doesn’t let go. 

“Don’t,” Kiyoomi repeats, quieter, and then: “Don’t go.” 

“Okay.” Atsumu licks his lips, finding his mouth dry. “I won’t.” He shuffles closer, half sitting on the edge of Kiyoomi’s mattress. Through the thin fabric of his button-down, he can feel the sweat on Kiyoomi’s palm, the way his thumb starts to trace mindless circles into his forearm. Even this simple touch is making him blush. It’s unbelievable. The amount of power Kiyoomi has over him just isn’t right. 

“I,” Kiyoomi starts, hesitant, and Atsumu is nothing but rapt. “You should lie down, too.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Kiyoomi says. There’s a bit of a pout in his voice, that sort of bratty inflection he gets when there’s something he wants. “Because I want you to, because it would make me feel better, okay? Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it matters,” Atsumu says on a disbelieving laugh, taken aback. “I don’t just jump into bed with people for no reason.”

“But I’m not _people_ , I thought we were--”

Kiyoomi’s mouth twists, like he doesn’t want to say it. Because of course he doesn’t. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can, like, jerk me around on the end of your fishing line. I’ve got my own will, too.” He’s bluffing. There’s probably nothing more he wants in the world than to _jump into bed_ with Sakusa Kiyoomi--besides an Olympic gold, or whatever, _duh_ \--but the way Kiyoomi’s asking for it unnerves him. Atsumu confessed three months ago nearly to the day, and they’ve held hands _once_. 

“Fine.” Kiyoomi tucks his limbs inward and rolls over, facing Atsumu. Half-curled into fetal position, he blinks up at Atsumu, lazy and slow, playing seducer so blatantly--by Kiyoomi’s standards, anyway--that Atsumu could laugh. Instead, Atsumu blinks back, finding himself mysteriously short of breath. 

It’s at this moment of weakness that Kiyoomi lunges forward and loops his arms around Atsumu’s middle, pulling him into the bed, where he falls back ungracefully against Kiyoomi’s chest. Atsumu makes an embarrassing yelp of surprise. “Hey! What’re you--I didn’t agree to nothing yet!” 

Despite Atsumu’s protests, Kiyoomi’s arms (thick, ropy with muscle) tighten around him and, a moment later, a guttural sigh of satisfaction reverberates out of Kiyoomi’s chest. Atsumu freezes. He goes bright red, his every muscle in rigor mortis because hell if _that sound_ didn’t just kill him. Kiyoomi’s warm, hard body shifts at his back, adjusting their relative position until a knee nudges between Atsumu’s and the bridge of Kiyoomi’s nose presses into his bare nape. “Sorry,” Kiyoomi roughs out, and Kiyoomi doesn’t apologize for _anything_. 

“Why’re you--” Atsumu’s head spins. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. I just--why’re you doing all of this, Omi?” 

“I don’t know.” There’s a thread of something pained in his voice, something Atsumu only wishes he could soothe. “I feel--this feels--” He rubs his face, his forehead into Atsumu’s neck, pulling Atsumu into the seat of his lap. Atsumu’s virginally flustered by it all--though this _is_ the most physical contact he’s ever made with his supposed _boyfriend_ of three months, and he is, after all, a little bit in love. “-- _good_ ,” Kiyoomi finishes, raw and honest. “I feel better. Don’t go.” 

“I won’t, alright?” Atsumu swallows around the knot in his throat. “Stop acting like I’m some wild rabbit that’ll run away if you look at me wrong, you’re gonna have to throw a lot more at me to get me to--”

“I don’t act like that.”

“Right, but sometimes you do. You are now.” Atsumu tries to relax, emphasis on _tries to_ \--Kiyoomi’s death grip on his waist makes that difficult. “If you could let me breathe a little in the meantime, that would be great.”

Kiyoomi huffs-- _disappointed?_ \--and eases up his hold, though he makes up for it by snuggling ever-closer until their bodies align in one firm press. “You should be naked.”

“ _What?_ ” Atsumu sputters. “I don’t--no. You’re not ready for that.”

“You don’t know how I feel.”

“I don’t,” admits Atsumu, throat threatening to bunch up again--damn Kiyoomi for being so goddamn _blunt_ about everything, even this. “But I know if you weren’t feeling, I dunno, some kind of _sick_ , you wouldn’t want it.” He frowns against the feelings that surge up his throat and prick at his eyes: desire that he’s choked down, affection that he’s given no outlet. “Omi, I think there was some weird shit in that cough drop. I dunno what the fuck it was, but--”

“Okay, and?” Kiyoomi says, impatient. “I want it now.” 

“You’re really childish when you don’t get what you want, aren’t cha?” 

“What I _meant_ is that what I would’ve wanted _then_ is immaterial.”

“I got that, okay?” Atsumu wriggles, his heartbeat fluttering. He’s never thought of himself as a _little spoon_ kind of guy, but Kiyoomi’s arms feel good around him, like some kind of all-natural weighted blanket. His breath tickles Atsumu’s neck. Despite what he knows intellectually about the situation, Atsumu feels supremely safe. “I just. I dunno if you’ll agree with that later. I mean--you don’t think this is _permanent_ , right?”

Atsumu feels Kiyoomi shake his head. “No, it already feels...less urgent.” Atsumu admits that he can tell, the way Kiyoomi’s breath has eased and the faint tremble in his limbs has ceased. “Don’t worry about later. Just stay with me.”

 _Fuck_. “Omi,” Atsumu complains. _You don’t have to keep saying it_. _You know damn well what you’re doing to me_. But that’s exactly it, isn’t it? “I’m staying, alright?” He pauses, listening to the deep, satisfied rhythm of Kiyoomi’s breathing. “Though if really wanna get me naked, you’re gonna have to let me go for a second.” 

Kiyoomi _humphs_ , but promptly lets him go and rolls onto his back. Atsumu notes that his flush has receded quite a bit, though his cheekbones are still stained prettily. He’s a gorgeous son of a bitch, but Atsumu’s always known that. Kiyoomi watches, eyes dark, as Atsumu quickly rids himself of his outer layers. 

He rejoins Kiyoomi in only his underwear, and it must be obvious how he’s blushing all over. The way Kiyoomi’s eyes flit down his body only make it worse. Atsumu waits for Kiyoomi to reach for him, giving him a quizzical look when he doesn’t. 

“Can we switch?” Kiyoomi murmurs. He rolls onto his other side, giving Atsumu a good look at the broad, mole-speckled expanse of his back, and looks over his shoulder almost demurely. Though Atsumu suspects Kiyoomi no longer intends to seduce, Atsumu’s heart stutters anyway. 

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Atsumu shuffles closer, only a touch regretful--it was a rare experience, alright? It’s not every day he gets spooned by 190 centimeter athletes--and throws an arm over Kiyoomi’s waist. 

A mole on the bridge of Kiyoomi’s shoulder beckons to him, and Atsumu presses his lips to it before he can think better of it. Kiyoomi’s skin is warm, only slightly damp. Kiyoomi’s shoulder jerks at the touch, nearly knocking Atsumu in the nose. Atsumu whispers an apology. _Shit_. He shouldn’t have done that. 

“Don’t be,” Kiyoomi whispers. Atsumu decides he won’t fight him on it. “I wanted that.”

“It’s okay,” Atsumu says, soothing no one in particular. Himself, maybe. 

“I want to kiss you,” Kiyoomi confesses, even softer now, his voice barely audible. “I just can’t.”

“It’s fine.” Is it? This whole infatuation is making Atsumu delusional. But he knows he could have anyone, kiss anyone, and none would compare to the way _this_ makes him feel. “You don’t have to.”

“Maybe Shouyou has more of those candies.”

“Maybe,” Atsumu says, chuckling like a drunk. “Ask him.” On second thought, though: “But maybe not, ‘cause this is fucking weird. I wouldn’t trust those things.”

“ _Hn_. I guess.” Kiyoomi’s breathing has slowed out, like he’s about to fall asleep. Atsumu caresses the smooth skin of his abdomen, reverent. He’ll fight to stay awake, Atsumu tells himself, to impress every second of this stolen blessing into his memory. The clean smell of Kiyoomi’s shampoo; the shape of his body, stretched out languidly instead of hardened in motion; the feel of his heartbeat as Atsumu presses his palm to his chest, tentatively, an unspoken question inscribed into the movement. Kiyoomi lets it happen.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/winwinism).


End file.
